And All The Stars
by whouffle-oneshoterature
Summary: "He's never believed the limit of the world is the sky. He's seen planets beyond every star, every cloud. He knows the universe is infinite. And yet, when he's with her, the world seems so unbelievably small." A simple, short whouffle one-shot.


**This is just a little whouffle oneshot.**

* * *

**He's never believed the limit of the world is the sky. He's seen planets beyond every star, every cloud. He knows the universe is infinite. **

And yet, when he's with her, the world seems so unbelievably small. As if every galaxy and supernova and sun is contained within her eyes, burning bright and fading fast; as if the entirety of everything that ever was or will be lives and dies with Clara Oswald, every moon rises and sets with her heart beat.

The Doctor watches her see Athryal 5 for the first time - a planet made of frozen starlight. He loves the way her eyes blaze with curiosity and excitement and awe. He loves the way she brushes her russet coloured hair behind her ear, and gazes around at everything. He loves the way she lets him hold her steady by placing his hands on her waist so she can lean out of the airborne TARDIS and look at the planet below. Long story short, he loves her.

The wind dances through Clara's hair as she sighs out, feeling utterly whole with the warm weight of the Doctor behind her and the amazement of the world below.

She gazes down, transfixed, at the spears of shifting, flowing golden gas, like shaped water mixed with mist. The arcs surge over the entire planet, forming something like a bizarre wicker basket or perhaps a ball of string, layers upon layer of woven starlight strings.

As Clara spreads her arms to feel the warm wind that Athryal 5 seems to breathe, the Doctor grips her waist tighter; she's so petit his fingers practically meet across the delicate rise and fall of her stomach with her breaths.

He recalls the immortal words of Victor Hugo. 'To love another person is to see the face of God.'

He doesn't believe in any kind of god, but he does believe in Clara Oswald. And if there really was an all-powerful entity out there and it wore her face, then perhaps neither heaven nor hell would be so bad.

"Do you like it? The planet?" he asks her softly, and even though the Doctor knows exactly what she will say, he loves to hear her speak. Even if angels could sing, even Clara just whispering would shame them all to silence.

"I love it," she murmurs back. "It's so beautiful." She turns to gaze at him; the two of them now face each other, framed by the TARDIS doorway.

Impulsively, the Doctor tucks a loose strand of hair behind Clara's ear, his other hand gently cupping her perfect, curved face.

Often, he used to think that the Timelord lived far too long. But now he knows that even forever is not enough for him to spend with Clara Oswald.

After only a heart beat's hesitation, the Doctor leans down and kisses her, lifting her up off her tip toes and into the air. The sensation of falling fills him; not the kind where the threat of the ground is imminent, but rather the sort where you no longer need either land or sky because the moment is so beautiful and immortal.

He can feel her heartbeat through her chest, wonderful and amazing and alive. He can taste strawberries on her lips. He can feel her smile against his as he twirls her around into the Control Room, and the whisper of the crimson fabric of her knee-length dress.

"Clara Oswald, you ARE beautiful," the Doctor tells her, and he means it.

She pulls away slightly in order to look at him. "You're not too bad yourself, Chin Boy," she reasons teasingly, her hand carefully sweeping through his quiff.

He grins at her again, gently picking her up and setting her down on a flat part of the Console as if she weighs nothing. "Hey," she mutters, though he knows she doesn't mind. "I'm not THAT small. I'm not-"

But he cuts her off with another quick kiss. "I know you're not that small. If you like, I can PROBABLY find an alien race even tinier than you. I can take you anywhere," he declares. "Anywhere and back."

Clara smiles softly at him.

"What?" he asks, a little self consciously, flicking his hair.

"Do you remember last week, at Radical 3, that woman who said you were like a universal law enforcer?" Clara prompts.

"Yeah..."

"Well, there's an Aristotle quote that says 'the Law is reason free from passion'. It isn't with you, though. All the galaxies, all the suns and every star - they're like children to you, aren't they? Some innocent, some broken. Some happy, some torn. Some pretty and some plain. But they're all beautiful, aren't they? When I was little, I had a place at the bottom of my garden where everything was made of wonder - every leaf and bug and blade of grass. You've got the biggest secret garden, haven't you? You fix everything, you're a Doctor, you use reason and justice. But you use passion more than either of those, don't you?" Clara says, gazing at him.

He stares at her in awe. "I wish I could go inside your head, Clara. It must be amazing to be able to think all those things at once, but still have all of them kind."

"You really don't want to be in my mind," she warns. "It's too crowded. And twelve hundred lives, living and dying, breathing and fading, growing and falling - isn't that enough to make anyone kind?" Completely involuntarily, tears grace Clara's eyes, taking the raging, feisty forest fire that normally flares within them and putting it out, replaced with the pain and loss of thousands of years.

Sometimes, he knows, he forgets. The Doctor is so used to being the old one, the scarred one, that he forgets others have seen and felt so much more than he.

"Hey," he murmurs, his broad thumb chasing the liquid diamond of her tears across her cheeks.

"I'm so sorry," Clara returns immediately. She's always so close to breaking point, nowadays. Even if she doesn't let him see it. Its slowly becoming too much. "I didn't mean to cry. I'm sorry."

"Clara," the Doctor says, almost fiercely. "Don't you EVER say sorry for that, you hear me? Don't ever apologise for being beautiful and wonderful and so, so brave. Ok? You can cry for each and every one of the lives you lived to save me, each death you suffered and friend you lost. I can't do much. But I promise, I swear, I will sit beside you and hold your hand. Forever, ok? For ten minutes or the lifetimes of a hundred suns, I'll be here for you. Ok?"

"Ok," Clara replies softly, as the Doctor draws her into him. Her cheek presses into his warm, firm chest, and she listens to the calming drum of his hearts. He rests her head under his chin, his fingers toying slowly with her hair.

He wonders if she knows how much he loves her. If she knows how special, how impossible she is.

The TARDIS hums. 'Tell her, idiot'.

So he does. Almost. Sort of. Well, he manages, but it takes him a little while.

(My Impossible Clara, he says.

Doctor, she responds.

You know when I say that, he tells her, I mean -

I know what you mean, Clara whispers to him.

But I want to say it anyway, he murmurs.

Ok, she agrees, leaning into him.

I love you, he says finally.

I know. I love you too.)

He's never believed the limit of the world is the sky. He knows now Clara Oswald is his whole world, the home he almost never did find.

Maybe he doesn't believe in a lot of things. Perhaps he's lost too much and saved too little. Perhaps he's loved too deeply and remembered too briefly.

Maybe he knows that there are clouds and skies and stars forever and ever, but that doesn't stop him thinking the world will end if she ever leaves or dies.

Maybe his world feels small when he's with her. Like everything begins and ends with her breaths.

But there is one thing he is very, very sure of, one idea which holds no chance of doubt.

And this is that the universe gave him Clara Oswald not to save him from the Great Intelligence, or to pull him out of the dark. The existence of the Impossible Girl was never dependent on him. The universe knows Clara doesn't even have to tug him out of the shadows. He'll just follow her out into the light.

Not because he loves the unsolvable, or the crazy or the improbable. Simply because he loves HER.

He doesn't really know why. She's just Clara, exactly as she always was. The most perfect thing anyone could ever hope to be. He doesn't think he'll ever understand what exactly it is about her that allowed her to become his whole universe, every sky and all the stars to him.

Perhaps that does make her the Impossible Girl after all.

Or maybe it just makes her Clara.


End file.
